


P. S. Victor Nikiforov Is Lonely

by Bauliya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Mental Health Issues, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bauliya/pseuds/Bauliya
Summary: Some days, Yuuri still thinks his happy ending came at the cost of Victor's career.So he asks an expert,what if I hadn't gone to the gala? What if we'd never fallen in love?
Relationships: Katsuki Mari & Katsuki Yuuri, Katsuki Yuuri & Okukawa Minako, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri Katsuki and Yuuri Katsuki
Comments: 29
Kudos: 97





	P. S. Victor Nikiforov Is Lonely

“It’s the nineteenth, right?”

“Yuuri,” Victor said, handing him the leash, “don’t be silly. It’s the twenty-second.”

Twenty-second.

He really had just intended on walking Makkachin down their usual path, three blocks out, two blocks west, round the little dog-friendly café with the overpriced lattés. He’d planned out his order even: hazelnut crunch, hot, hold the whipped cream, please. Thanks.

But it was the twenty-second.

His last chance.

So instead of just going straight on, he took the second left from their flat, nape tingling as if watched, though he knew very well Victor was already in their home gym, and couldn’t see Yuuri from the balcony anyway even if he stood at the edge. The buildings got in the way.

The Solstice Market was held in the Sunken Gardens, up northside. Just behind the western entrance, were rows and rows of stalls selling artisanal honey and beeswax lip balms and spices and teas and shawls and candied apples and cinnamon pies. And also little charms and crystal balls and talismans and rabbit paws hanging from strings and curses and wishes and jars marked witches’ hair.

Victor had laughed most of it off, when he and Yuuri and Yurio had come here three days ago. _I remember when I used to come with my mother,_ he’d said, _they had real magic back then._ He’d still bought a couple protective charms from a beat down little stall, and paid more than the label, as any person with common sense would.

One of those charms hung from Makkachin’s collar, who was currently being pet by a warm-faced old woman in a colourful patchwork jacket. Yuuri smiled nervously and held on to the leash, examining jars and boxes he did not intend to buy. The still standing stalls were dotted with empty spaces. Around him, people were packing up already, most having switched out from misshapen robes to practical coats and boots. “She’s a sweet girl. How old is she?”

“Eighteen”

Her eyes widened, and she cooed at Makka. Yuuri fiddled with his ring.

“If you rush you might still be able to catch her, boy,” the woman said, letting Makka go. Yuuri thanked her and bowed, quickly rushing to the end of the market.

The stall was still there, at the end of the market.

It was one of the biggest, erected in a shadow casted by nothing. In the centre of it lay a marble fountain, out of place with the baubles on the folding tables in the parachute tent. Yuuri stepped closer.

“Welcome back,” A thick voice came from the dark. A rustle. The woman stood up and finally the dark shapes in the corner made sense, as sleeves and hats and many many pockets, “Have you finally made up your mind?”

Yuuri cleared his throat, and twisted his ring.

“Yes.”

She opened the door he could’ve easily leapt over. “Fifty rubles.” Yuuri gave two hundred. Makkachin whined and he pulled her closer.

The old, cracked fountain had a poster hanging over it, done in scratchy marker. QUESTION FOUNTAIN! ANSWER ALL YOUR WHAT-IF’S! This was the stall that Victor had tugged him away from—as surreptitiously and charmingly as he could, but tugged him away nonetheless.

“What do I—”

“Sit on the edge of the fountain and think of your question,” She said, “Then splash some water on your face.”

 _What if_ —no. God. He should’ve framed it before coming.

_What if Victor hadn’t met me._

_What if Victor hadn’t fallen in love with me._

“It has to be a single decision. A decision you make.”

Yuuri bit his lip. He knew, very well, that his husband loved him. That his husband was happy. He knew it. He observed it. But there was a little voice in his head, that this evidence wasn’t enough for, who pointed to Victor’s last lackluster season where he didn’t win a single gold before retiring and said _your fault._

His therapist had taught him strategies to ignore it and to look at the flaws in its reasoning but it was difficult to argue with the fact that Victor had never reclaimed any of his records, while Yuuri had climbed and climbed and climbed.

Difficult to argue when it said you pulled him down to propel yourself, parasite.

So he was here, and looking for a question.

_What if I’d never gone to the 2016 GPF gala?_

Yuuri splashed some water in his face. It was cool, and his last thought was _hey, why isn’t this frozen?_

—

_Hey, why isn’t this frozen?_

Yuuri blinked. What an odd thought to have. Of course it wasn’t frozen, this was far too late in the year for the pipes to freeze over and—Oh. He caught the sight of the gold band on his finger and thoughts came rushing back. Victor. Solstice festival. He was in Yu-Topia, at the sink in his bathroom.

“Fuck,” It’d worked.

“Oh god.”

“Yuuri! Are you in here?!” Mari. “You need to clear out room 214 for the four PM party!”

“Yes, Mari! A second!”

Yu-Topia, Yu-topia. Yuuri pulled out his phone—an old iPhone—and checked the date. Oh. It was the date Victor showed up. Was supposed to show up. He quickly tapped Yuuri Katsuki Stay With Me on youtube, and all that showed up were his own routines and a list of what seemed to be tributes, Victor’s performances, and compilations for what seemed to be just crying fans. Typical for Vitya.

“Yuuri!”

“Coming!” He’d investigate later. He didn’t want to slip his ring off, so he just put on a pair of thin gloves over his hand.

The room needed to be dusted, the mattresses and the sheets replaced. Yuuri became winded embarrassingly quickly, not having the athlete’s strength he was used to.

Mari came to check on him.

Thrice.

“You know,” he said, “You might as well help me with this, if you’re just going to look at me the whole time.”

She had no pithy comeback. Just an unblinking stare.

“Are you... okay?”

Mari laughs.

“I’m okay? You. You ask me if I’m okay? Yuuri. He asks me if I’m—” She exhaled, far more unsettled than amused, face twisted, “Yuuri.”

Yuuri bit his lip. It had been a while since his failure at the GPF, he didn’t know how to get back into the mindset. He remembered he’d been sad. Very sad. But he’d also gotten over it quick once Victor had shown up, but that wasn’t.. going to happen, this time around, so, “Look, I’ve thought about it, okay,” he said, “And I’ve decided the best I can do is just focus on what’s next, you know? What happened, happened. It was out of my control, and the best I can do is focus on my skating—”

“You’re going back to skating?”

“Yes… I’m just 23, Mari. This doesn’t have to end my career.”

Mari looked at him. And looked and looked. She opened her mouth. Shut it. Was quiet for a while. “I don’t know if you’re genuinely coping well with this, or if you’re putting on an act,” she said, “But… I’m here for you. If you need to talk. We all are. Even though we don’t really get this.”

Yuuri smiled at her.

“Thank you, Mari. But I think I’ll be just fine.”

He rushed to his room once he was done and locked the door, out of wariness. Okay. Okay. He didn’t need a gala. This Yuuri didn’t need a gala. He could get with Victor without it. Without wrecking Victor’s career, he could get them together, and save his career, by recording Eros and Yuri on Ice while he was here. 24 hours would be enough, he assumed he had to have that long, that was what every spell said. And Minako could take care of the coaching, they’d meet in the next GPF and it would be okay.

But first.

Yuuri whipped out a pen and scribbled something, and then tossed it aside. Three attempts later, he finally had a letter.

_Dear Yuuri,_

_This is Yuuri. Another Yuuri. I don’t know how this particular magic works, and I hope we switched places so you’ll have seen just how our future can turn out in person but if you haven’t, know this: do not give up. This GPF loss doesn’t have to define us. I will leave you recordings of a short program, and a long program, and you can have Minako train you…_

He didn’t mention Vitya. He knew himself enough to realise that this world’s Yuuri would take one look at Victor and your husband in the same sentence and toss the paper aside and eat another bowl of Katsudon. He did mention that he was getting too old to not realise that his heroes were just people that could be approached and hoped it would be enough.

Yuuri chewed on his lip. Finally, he wrote

_P.S._

_Victor Nikiforov is lonely. Ask him out for coffee sometime._ He scratched that out.

_Ask him to dance with you at the next gala. Bit of champagne should help._

Satisfied, he carefully folded it and put it in an envelope, addressing it as To Myself in kanji and sliding it into the drawer of his desk.

Now, to record the performances. Yuuri winced, and hoped his out of shape body had enough strength to carry out the routines, even with the downgraded jumps.

—

Yuko looked sick. Her skin was drawn, her eyes lined with shadows.

“Hi, Yuko ,” he said, “Are you.. Sure you should be here?”

She smiled, sad. “Takeshi said I should take the day off, but… I’m not a kid anymore, you know? We closed the rink yesterday, anyway, and being out of the house will do me good.”

“Are the girls here?” He couldn’t ask her a favour when she was ill.

“They didn’t even go to school.”

“Right.”

“Yuuri,” She surged forwards, taking his hand in hers, her features pinching, “I’m. This must be hard for you, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything you need, anything at all—”

“Yuko —”

“—the thought of it, oh god—”

“I do need one thing!” Yuuri interrupted her, to distract her from her welling eyes, “I need you to record something for me.”

She straightened, like a soldier called to attention, “Of course.”

“They’re two skating routines.”

She didn’t respond.

“...originals. But, ah. They’re very, um.. Heavily inspired? From Victor Nikiforov’s, so they may look—”

And then she burst. Yuuri held her as she sobbed, awkwardly patting her back, repeatedly apologising, saying it was fine, he’d get someone else to do it, but at that suggestion she reeled back, offended. “I will record your routines for you,” Yuko said, with enough commitment to make him afraid what would happen if he said no now.

—

“Okay,” Yuuri said, “the first one is a short program. It’s called Eros. I don’t have the music quite yet.”

“When did you have the time to design these?”

He shrugged, “after class. In uni.”

Yuuri skated to the centre, tilted his hips, lowered his hands, his gaze. And then raised his wrists in a slow arc, swooped them down and winded them around his torso. Twist, turn, and finally look up with fuck-me eyes and a cheeky grin.

—

Yuko never stopped weeping.

—

Afterwards, Yuuri just took her home, feeling guilty, but she was proud of their work. The sun was setting already, and the World’s would be airing any minute. “He’d be proud, you know. Victor. They’re really—really up to his standard.”

If only she knew.

“Thank you, Yuko . For all you’ve done for me.”

She hugged him tighter.

“You’re family, Yuuri. Don’t you forget it, okay? You’re not alone.”

He laughed. “Alone? How can I be alone? I’m so—loved.”

“I’m glad you finally see it.”

The triplets had uniformly red, swollen eyes. They didn’t run, nor jump, nor scream. Simply looked at their mother, and at him, and quietly walked over to hug her. “Have you made dinner yet?” Takashi looked as if the word did not even exist in his vocabulary, “I’ll make katsudon for you, okay?”

“Yuuri, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, don’t be silly, I’m a fifth generation restaurant cook, it’ll take forty minutes tops! Do you guys have chicken?”

Just like Mari, Takeshi stared at him from the kitchen entrance. And just like what he said then, he said now, “if you’re just going to stand there, you might as well help me with it.”

“Ah, right, uh.”

“You can chop the onions and garlic over there,” Yuuri said, pointing with his knife, “It’s my least favourite task.”

“Mine too,” He said, obediently getting to it. Yuuri battered and fried the chicken, trying to think back to four years ago. He’d chalked it up to illness, but.. Had their reactions to his loss been that extreme then? He was aware his memories weren’t exactly accurate, being in a slump as he was, but their actions… they’d been excited to see him. He didn’t remember them being sad. But he didn’t want to seem too out of character.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been replaced by a clone or something.”

Ah.

Yuuri smiled at him. “I got tired of being depressed.”

Takeshi laughed. “That’s the right attitude to have!”

“How have they been? Yuko didn’t look so good, at the rink.”

“The rink? You skated?”

Yuuri shrugged.

“Well,” Takeshi scratched the back of his head, then crushed a garlic from the flat-side of the knife, “You know. I’ve been trying to cheer them up, but with something like this… it’s just going to take time.”

Yuuri nodded. “And chicken soup.”

“And chicken soup, exactly.”

Despite their insistence, Yuuri couldn’t stay. It was already close to nine. He ran home, rushed past his sister, and his mother, and his father, and Minako, and didn’t stop until he was in his room with his phone plugged to his laptop.

Alright.

He created a copy of the video on the laptop, labelled _YUURI LOOK AT THIS_ , and then uploaded copies to three different flash drives and his hard disk, and put sticky notes on each of them labelled _ROUTINES._

That...should be enough, right?

That should be enough.

It was nine thirty. He was starving. He guessed he’d missed the first couple of performances but that didn’t matter, Victor would perform close to the end. Yuuri went downstairs, where Minako was quietly drinking. She frowned up at him, “Hello, Yuuri.”

“Hi,” He sat beside her, and reached for the remote, “C’mon, I don’t want to miss any more performances—”

“Yuuri.”

“Minako?”

She bit her lip.

“Be careful, okay?”

The TV was already set to ESPN. Christophe’s scores must’ve been disappointing because he and his coach were quietly, expressionlessly exiting the kiss and cry, scoreboard off the screen.

The announcer cleared his throat. “Now, representing Russia,” a collective, oppressive quiet, “Victor Nikiforov.”

Something was wrong.

No one entered the arena. No one made a sound.

“Minako—”

The jumbotron flashed to Victor’s Stammi Vicino performance, in what looked like the Russian nationals. He was smiling. He looked tired.

The caption was _Victor Nikiforov. In memoriam._

“Minako,” Yuuri’s palms were clammy, he tugged at the table cloth, “Minako.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Yuuri.”

Water boxed him in. Cold and sharp, it drowned him. Filled his lungs whole. Minako held him as he screamed though he didn't notice. He spilled soup over his lap, and doesn’t notice that either.

In the TV, in a stadium across the world, they let Victor’s performance run in its entirety. When it ended, there was no applause. And there wasn’t any applause for anyone else.

—

Yuuri checked his phone for the first time and realised all the apps were deleted, or muted.

—

The posters in his room were torn off, messily, leaving behind glue and slashes of white.

—

53 missed calls, 1035 unread messages.

—

He googled Victor Nikiforov.

—

It was in past tense.

It was all in past tense.

—

“Yuuri? You’re scaring your mother.”

Minako.

“It’s open.”

He was on his bed, quiet.

“I killed him.”

“Don’t say that, Yuuri—”

“You don’t understand. I. It was my fault. He—he hanged—”

“Yuuri—”

“I KILLED HIM, MINAKO!”

“Just because he’s alive whenever, wherever you’re from,” she said, “doesn’t make my Yuuri a murderer.”

Yuuri shut up and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, breathed. Minako’s a blur, but he could tell she’s angry. He didn’t care. The scooped out centre of his torso didn’t care. Yuuri’s shoulders began to shake again, but this time there wasn’t a comforting hug. Minako waited for him to stop.

“The problem with this sort of magic is that it oversimplifies. There’s no actual way to just shift one thread. Yes, this is a world where you didn’t make a crucial turn. But this is also a world where someone else wasn’t late to a meeting, or a car sped up, or slowed down, or someone’s heart was broken one too many times. The point is that you’ll get to leave.”

“But your Yuuri won’t?”

She nodded

His head hurt. He didn’t believe her. And he knew that this version of him wouldn’t either. But he understood. He understood love.

“Okay,” he said, “it wasn’t his fault. My. My fault.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Is he—Is this-Yuuri back where I’m from?”

“Most likely.”

He thought back. He’d have woken up next to the fountain, with Makkachin. Probably wandered around for a bit before Victor began to blow up his phone, and hanged up the first few times believing him to be a prank caller despite the poodle and St. Petersburg. Would he have gone home by checking the address of Makkachin’s collar? Or would he have looked at his phone and pieced everything together?

Would he have hugged Victor back?

Kissed him?

Would he have volunteered to cook to avoid awkward conversation and then spilled the salt across the counter when he felt Victor’s lips on his nape?

“You’ll have to make him forget,” Yuuri said, “Minako, you’ll have to make him forget.”

“I will. But you’ll have to come up with… a plausible solution,” she said, “Convince him it wasn’t his fault.”

Yuuri nodded.

He burnt the letter. Deleted all copies of the performances, while Minako went to Yuko to erase her memories. Deleted his search history too, for good measure. All traces erased, he sat down at his desk and picked up a pen.

_Dear Yuuri,_

What does he say?

What could he say?

 _It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could’ve done._ Not true. He was never a good liar. Yuuri’s throat felt hot and thick. He tore the letter, and began again.

_Dear Yuuri,_

_There’s nothing you could have done._

_Whatever alternative reality there exists, it exists because of a thousand different actions of a thousand different people that you had no control over. There was nothing that you, personally, could have done._

_Do you remember when we first saw him? For me, it was when I was twelve. Yuko showed me. I was already competing in novice level events and, truth be told, seriously considering dropping out. But watching him, watching Victor—I had a new goal. To skate on the same ice as him. I imagine you did too._

_You achieved it, no matter what your mind tells you. You didn’t fuck up. You’re not a loser. You’re twenty three, with your whole life ahead of you._

_I cannot tell you what to do. I cannot, will not tell you to go back to skating or to get a professional job. But whatever you chose, you’ll get a chance at happiness, even if it’s not the version you pictured at twelve._

—

The switch will happen when you fall asleep, Minako had said. Yuuri laid on his bed at midnight, awake despite his best efforts. Was it just his anxiety? His devouring sadness? Or just sheer force of will of a Yuuri wanting to stretch out his time with Victor?

He gave up. He’d let the other Yuuri cuddle Vitya for a few more hours.

Victor Nikiforov, he googled again, his room dark and his face lit blue by his phone. Eighty million hits, in 0.46 seconds.

—

_Victor Nikiforov, Three-Time Olympic Gold Medallist, Dies At 27. New York Times._

_Victor Nikiforov Died By Hanging, Official Confirms. The Guardian._

_‘Allowed to compete despite unstable mental state’ RSU Insider Bares All. The Daily Mirror._

_Nikiforov: A Tragedy Or A Reckoning? New York Times._

—

Preliminary investigation has concluded that Olympian Victor Nikiforov died of suicide by asphyxiation, St. Petersburg police confirm. He was found in his flat Tuesday morning by his coach, Yakov Feltsman, who was also the last person to see him alive.

He’s survived by his heir, Junior World Champion Yuri Plisetsky, whose legal representative has requested privacy in this time of unprecedented loss.

_Victor Nikiforov: Cause of Death Determined by Authorities, Moscow Times_

—

...there’s little consistency in a sport where five competitive seasons are considered exceptional, where in three years everything—from the rules to the skaters to the judges—can be unrecognisable. Yet Victor Nikiforov stood firm, ruling the ice for ten years, influencing generations of skaters and fans alike, whose untimely death rocked the foundations…

_A Terrible Loss, The St. Petersburg Times_

—

Vityaaa @nickiiiistan 10h

lol every single sports journalist that said he looked tired in the gpf and that he should retire already are writing ‘what vn meant to me’ articles. yall deserve to ROT.

4.2k likes. 1.1k retweets.

—

“I remember the first time I saw him,” Giacommetti says, “He was beautiful. Now I realise he was just a teenager, of course, but back then I thought he was a god. He threw me a rose, and wished me luck. I had it preserved. I still have it. But he was more than just a talented skater. He was a good man. A gentle soul. We’d walk around cities after events, and he’d stop to pet every dog. God—” I ask if he needs to stop. Giacommetti waves me off, “I think. I think that’s what I want people to remember. That he was the sort of person that pet stray dogs, that photographed colourful weeds growing through sidewalks. Who found wonder in the ordinary.”

_Interview With Christophe Giacommetti, VOGUE_

—

A little known fact about Victor Nikiforov is that he used to have brown hair. Though it certainly wasn’t well hidden, many a skating fan had stumbled upon it by sifting through old interviews on YouTube*. It started turning white somewhere around his tenth birthday, and was his signature silver by the time he debuted in Russian Junior Nationals at age thirteen. This little piece of information is rather emblematic of figure skating as a whole: in any other context, a child suffering from such extreme stress induced premature greying would be a cause of alarm. Here, it became a mark of pride.

_Nikiforov: A Tragedy or a Reckoning? New York Times_

edit* the video referenced ‘INTERVIEW OF NOVICE SKATERS’ has been removed from YouTube.

—

iceprincesss:

okay so i downloaded the video before they deleted it and here’s the bit everyone keeps talking about. It’s. ah.

lokispussy:

CAPTIONS

The video is set in an indoor ice skating rink. The interviewer, a man in his forties, just stops talking to an adult skater.

INTERVIEWER: Alright! And now, for our most promising novice skater! Tell us about yourself.

Victor Nikiforov stands shyly on the ice. He is short and thin, with shoulder length brown and white hair and braces.

VICTOR: Hello! My name is Victor! I’m ten, I had my first competition last week.

INTERVIEWER: And you medalled, didn’t you?

VICTOR (looks sad): Yes, silver.

INTERVIEWER: Silver’s good!

VICTOR: That’s what everyone keeps telling me…

END CAPTIONS.

—

YuriP @tiger_plisetsky 6h.

leave me the fuck alone

702k likes. 223k retweets.

(Refresh)

The tweet you requested is unavailable.

—

Yuuri didn’t know why he kept scrolling, reading article after article, tweet after tweet, screencap after screencap. His chest felt numb.

His eyelids became heavy, and blinked his eyes once, slow, and was at the fountain when he opened them.

“Did you get the answer you were looking for?”

Yuuri didn’t respond. He fumbled furiously for his phone, nearly dropped it in the pool. It was impossible to use it with a wet hand so he ripped off his glove with his teeth, nearly tearing off the fingertip, and pressed _call._

“Hello, Yuuri! Did you miss me already?”

Pause.

“Yuuri?”

Pause.

“Are you crying?”

“Stay on the line,” Yuuri choked out, “Stay on the line. Please.”

“Is everything ok? Do you want me to come get you?”

“No!” He said and pinched the bridge of his nose. His glasses were too dirty to see out of. “Keep talking. Just keep talking, until I reach home.”

“Oookay. So. Uh,” Victor fumbled, “Hm. Well! I kind of messed up with food, actually, I thought I’d caramelise enough onions to last us the whole of next week, but, uh, I forgot they were on the stove and then they burnt? Well, not all of them, just the bottom, so I was just scraping the pot and trying to salvage whatever I could before you called—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because you know caramelised onions just go with everything<, they’re the best. Speaking of, we should grow some basil because that goes with everything too and I read that it takes over your soil pretty fast and wouldn’t it be nice? To just have your own personal supply of fresh basil in our balcony—”

Victor kept talking. He was good at that, his mind making quick leaps from food to gardening to honeybees to their favourite café to the what books he’d just bought—

“—AND can you IMAGINE, she was the killer all along? The sweet little girl, I just had to soak it in for a bit, you know I can’t stand it when they involve children but this was just so well done—”

“Victor, hey. Open the door.”

Yuuri tackled him in a hug before Makkachin had a chance to. Victor fell to his knees on the floor.

“Hey, babe.”

Yuuri held on tighter, feeling Victor’s ribs in his grasp. They shifted with every breath. They were there. He was there.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Yuuri shook his head.

“Okay. Okay, solnyshko.”

“Victor,” Yuuri said, nearly ten minutes later, “promise me you’ll tell me if you’re sad.”

“Where did you go?”

“Promise me first.”

“Okay,” Victor said, confused, “I promise. Now, will you tell me?”

Yuuri buried his face in his chest, “no.”

—

Victor never asked again.

—

The days slid to normal. They returned to their rink to train kids, and Yuuri took more time asking them how they felt, eased up on the pushing. Victor bought basil seedlings, even if St. Petersburg was too cold for them. They went to World’s in Paris to cheer on Yura, who called them has-beens to their face.

In two weeks, Yuuri almost forgot.

Almost.

The problem with having so many floor to ceiling bookshelves was the cleaning. Clad in an old t-shirt and jeans, Yuuri dusted his shelf, while Victor did his. Well, sorta. He cracked open yet another book every five minutes.

These shelves held the books he’d brought back from Hasetsu. Mostly Japanese novels, and some english books of poetry. All read multiple times. So he noticed immediately that Confessions of a Mask was shelved incorrectly.

It fell open in his palm, revealing an envelope with _To Myself_ written on it in his own handwriting.

**Author's Note:**

> well. i have no excuse. a bitch loves angst. i've had this idea since,,,, 2016, and i just HAD to write it after seeing the trailer! 
> 
> comments are love! i'm @bauliya on tumblr! :)


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